


sunglasses

by tsuluio



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Fluff, Hero Mode (Splatoon), Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Lots of Angst, M/M, Pining, crackship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 20:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20377273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuluio/pseuds/tsuluio
Summary: He hates those sunglasses. Hates them... until he doesn't.





	sunglasses

**Author's Note:**

> for the only other person ik who ships this
> 
> also continuing my trend of not being able to leave aviator alone

"You're cute."

Rider chokes on his drink, the cold liquid churning in his throat, stinging it with tiny pins and needles etched onto his tongue. The lips beneath the sunglasses twist into an irritating smirk, eyebrows raising past the golden rims.

"Did I say something wrong?"

It's concern in its words, but anything but that in tone. Rider merely scowls at his reflection in the brown-tinted glass and refuses to answer until he has finished coughing.

"No." He wipes his mouth with a napkin and notes how rough it feels. Matches his mood, in a way.

Aviator's smirk grows wider and Rider pushes down the overwhelming feeling to punch him. It would not do well for his reputation in the S4 if he were to pick a fight with the leader's closest friend. "You sure? You missed a little bit right there."

A hand reaches out, points, a little too close to his scar, and Rider jerks away from it, teeth baring. "Don't touch me," he hisses, and the hand retreats.

He doesn't regret that. Not at all.

\--

There’s a car crash. He reads it in the news. Stealth has the premonition of disaster and turns off the TV but it’s too late. He’s already seen it.

No casualties, thankfully. Two drivers and one pedestrian was involved. The pedestrian was walking across a street. There was a red light, run through by some idiot, and it crashed into the pedestrian and the car that was turning in from the side. They were all lucky to be alive.

They show footage of the wreck, the cars’ hoods steaming smoke, thick and black against the vibrant storefronts. They show the pictures of the people involved. 

Rider would recognize those sunglasses anywhere.

\--

The sunglasses before Rider are cracked, like someone decided to ram it with a two ton truck with some extra weight to spare. And it probably was.

Aviator's lips are still stretched into a smirk, something that Rider concentrates less on today. He’s more concerned for the dried blood collected on the bridge, the shine of it dulled by a muck of dark blue. He says nothing of it because it isn’t his turn to pry. He simply offers a glare, and the smirk turns into a painful grin.

“You need something?” There’s a bit of challenge there in the voice, the sunglasses tilting slightly so the fluorescent light shines through them. Rider can’t see the eyes underneath; he never could. He shrugs, the lift of his shoulders letting the concern slide off and onto the ground. He feels lighter now. And annoyed.

“I was just looking.”

The bell jingles as he leaves, and for a moment considers re-entering before changing his mind. The smell of freshly baked bread and chocolate vanish when the door closes behind him.

He doesn’t look back.

\--

Rider forgets to check for witnesses when he disappears through the grating. Octo Canyon isn’t for wandering eyes, for any random Inkling happening upon the entrance. It’s not guarded, which is his first hint that he might need to double check but his impulsivity lets him go through without a second double back.

So in response to his neglect, he comes back from a mission to see Aviator in those sunglasses, gazing at the gazebo, the one lined with old wood and cracked metal. He has to shout, taking pleasure in the slight jump the other Inkling rewards him with.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

The sunglasses are becoming loathsome now; since the expression behind it is so palpable, he doesn’t understand the point of them. There’s nothing but calm here though, and Rider’s briefly disappointed.

“Followed you for a bit. Why didn’t you tell anyone you were an Agent?”

“Goggles knows.”

Dammit. Now he exposed his friend, but it’s not like the other’s name isn’t scrawled on the gazebo, in black Sharpie that would never go away. Hands are shoved into pockets, the emerald green catching sunlight and reflecting it into his eyes. He bites his lip in irritation.

“Okay, but anyone else?” The sunglasses are closer now and he resists the urge to shove Aviator away. 

“No one needs to know. Fuck off.” He doesn’t expect any reaction in his favor.

Aviator smiles then, one that’s more hesitant than the usual. “Fine. How do you get back to Inkopolis? Tell me that, at least.”

The sunglasses, despite all of their glory, doesn’t allow the purple Inkling to see the grating behind. Rider takes a reckless decision. “Can’t. Wait ‘til I’m done. It’ll take ten minutes.”

A hum twines through the air. “And if you don’t show?”

Rider turns away, so he doesn’t have to see the stupid expression beneath the stupid sunglasses, to have the stupid sun bouncing off the stupid jacket. “Then I’m dead.”

He doesn’t wait for a response.

\--

Rider finishes in five minutes and goes back rather reluctantly. There are no sunglasses waiting for him, no condescending smirk, no smug expressions. There’s simply… nothing. 

He walks forward a bit and stops as his feet crunch a piece of paper into a flattened mess. He picks it up. It’s hastily scrawled: Found the exit.

With a huff of both relief and endearance, he leaves Octo Canyon.

\--

The door swings open, the jingling alerting everyone to his presence. He doesn’t like attention anymore, not since what happened underground. His scar tingles from the stares.

“Hey Rider!” He turns to see Aviator behind the counter like before, sunglasses still on his face, and almost smiles. Almost.

He forces it away before anyone sees.

“What.”

There’s no change in tone, no sign that his words have affected anything.

“Looking pretty cute today.” Finger guns. He hates them. Hates them.

He almost blushes. His mind turns into a screaming mess and he just walks right back out before the door can close behind him in the first place.

\--

There’s tension -- no, not sexual tension, he can’t admit that -- in the air when he turns a corner and comes face to face with sunglasses. He growls.

“What do you want?”

The barest hint of a grin from the other. “Nothing. For now. Why do you keep running off when I talk to you?”

“When have I ever run off?”

Aviator's eyebrows raise in surprise. “Really?”

Rider is starting to feel like he’s missed out on something. “Really what?”

He’s glad when the wind interrupts them, blowing so hard, he’s almost knocked over. It’s freezing cold, and that emerald jacket won’t do well in this weather. He makes a decision before he even thinks about it.

“Here.” The zipper comes down, the jacket comes off. It’s colder without the leather keeping heat inside, but he’s already come this far. He tosses it forward and a pair of hands reach out to catch it. The eyebrows, if possible, have risen higher. He ignores them. “You look stupid in that jacket.”

He could’ve said it was cold outside, but that is something he knows is only said between lovers, as a way of affection. He doesn’t like Aviator, not at all.

There’s that tint of purple on the other's cheeks and he acknowledges the cuteness of it before he throws it into the incinerator of his mind. No need for that now. Gold flashes into his sight, the sound of another zipper undoing itself before the green satin is tossed at him in return. He’s hit with the scent of flour and sugar and his cheeks burn as he watches the figure before him slip into his jacket, leaving him with softer fabric than his own, the smell foreign but nice.

He had lied. The jacket doesn’t look stupid, and this one definitely is anything but stupid.

Maybe a different word that started with an s but he _really_ doesn't want to think about it.

He has to actually turn around, clutching the white and green in his right hand as he speed walks away, Aviator's voice calling his name but he refuses to turn back.

Rider makes it all the way to his apartment before he realizes the flour and sugar smell -- as well as the jacket -- is still with him.

\--

"I like you." The words are out of his mouth before he has time to take them back. There's no response for a moment, which scares him.

Nonsense. He doesn't get scared. But then why are his hearts pounding so fiercely?

“You literally just realized?" The teasing tone is what surprises him. And annoys him. How could his crush even know he liked him without--

"It's obvious," Aviator continues, mouth twitching as he speaks. If that's supposed to be a deadpan, it isn't a very good one. "Because _everyone_ likes me."

His head whips around to stare at the purple Inkling before the words sit in. "Shut the fuck up."

Laughter. "Oh cod, you should've seen your face!"

Impulse overtakes him and he pulls himself forward, so close to the other that their noses are touching, that he can almost see the eyes behind the sunglasses, wide in surprise. "Let me see yours first."

There's some feeling of triumph as Aviator blushes so hard, his tentacles alight.

\--

The sunglasses are all he sees now, and he doesn't feel to annoyed by it, for some reason. Late movie nights and shared popcorn are most of it, but he wants more.

He can't find the words to express it.

There's a weight on his left shoulder, soft snoring in his ear as onscreen, an Inkling loads a massive blaster and catches her friend in the face. He can't find much interest for the movie, instead concentrating on not moving as much as he can. The rims of the sunglasses are digging into his skin but he doesn't care as much for it as he does by the overwhelming urge to sleep here right now. 

The yellow green Inkling struggles with himself for a minute before reaching out to turn off the TV, the weight shifting slightly. He turns to look and is met by lips upon his own. Aviator's sleepy smirk is visible even in the darkness.

Rider has the decency to flush and shove the weight off of him, a grumble escaping his mouth as he goes to his bedroom.

He wishes he stayed where he was.

\--

"Where'd you get your scar?" A hand is raised tentatively above Rider's right eye, but he refuses to flinch away. It's Aviator. Not anyone else. He's fine.

"Battle. Agent stuff."

There's a nod, but he can tell the other wants to ask _how_. He debates whether or not it's worth sharing then decides that the purple Inkling already knows about the agent business anyway.

He then proceeds to explain everything: Goggles, Captain Cuttlefish, the Octolings, being brainwashed by Tartar before being saved by Goggles. The entire time, the sunglasses are surprisingly still, mouth half-turned into a frown when he's finished.

He has a feeling he said something wrong and is about to backtrack when Aviator finally speaks.

"You okay if I touch it?"

He blinks, before nodding slightly. The hand descends upon his face and he closes his eyes instinctively, waiting for something bad to happen. Instead, a thumb brushes lightly over his eyelid, gently moving outwards along the edges of the scar, trailing across his cheek. He involuntarily shivers and the movement on his face stops abruptly. He opens his eyes to see the other staring back at him. Or rather, he would assume it's staring if not for the damned sunglasses in the way.

"What?"

"You want me to stop?" Aviator's voice is softer than usual, and Rider shakes his head, reaching out to grab the other's hand, pressing it to his own face. He closes his eyes again, this time in anticipation.

"No. Keep going."

\--

There's offhand remarks made every time they exit the lobby, probably because they both have some mystery about them the public can't figure out: Rider with his scar and discolored eye and Aviator with his ever-present sunglasses.

He has his own questions about why the other refuses to take them off, even when inside, but doesn't want to pry too much.

"Look, it's them again."

"Wonder what happened to his face."

"You ever question why he wears those shades everywhere?"

The tension radiating from both Inklings are enough to silence the whispers, yet Rider knows they'll start again once they're out of earshot. He forces himself to relax as he leaves the lobby; any rumors circulating about his scar are not things he treats lightly, but he's dealt with them for so long that he has become numb to anything else.

The other's usual smirk is strained, like it could slip at any moment, and Rider glances over before deciding to look away. It's not respect, but maybe Aviator could stand to have less eyes on him than he wants. Neither of them speak until they're clear from the Square altogether and Rider wordlessly gestures down the street towards his apartment. The purple Inkling follows, but not before pressing the glasses more firmly against his face, as if doing so could take back all the words spoken behind their backs.

\--

Days turn into weeks and he finds himself staring in the mirror, darkened room and deep breathing around him. His scar itches but he doesn't want to scratch it, to even remember it exists. He recalls a time when his face still looked normal, when he wasn't combating the endless nightmares where he didn't make it out, where he wasn't saved by the others.

He despises his scar. Loathes it. Wants to get rid of it. But he can't. And he's stuck looking like _this, like an absolute freak--_

Arms wrap around him and the familiar smell of flour and sugar overwhelm him as Aviator's face buries itself in his neck.

"Your scar again?"

Rider nods slightly.

There's a pause before lips gently press itself onto his scar, cool against his skin. He closes his eyes, letting tension drain from his body, the self-hate dissolving as the pressure on the side of his face vanishes and reappears along the edge of the ugly bluish scrawl.

"Love you." The words are said with familiarity, and Rider gazes at himself in the mirror again, noting the sunglasses behind him, chin resting on his shoulder now. He smiles and lets himself be led back to bed.

\--

Aviator's eyes are violet, pupils a deep gold. Rider feels like he can stare at them forever. He's briefly stunned when the sunglasses come off, the lenses staring at him from the coffee table before his gaze slides back to the Inkling in front of him, expression actually nervous for once.

"You look... nice." Compliments aren't his strong suit, but Aviator flushes anyway. "Why do you wear those stupid things when you have better eyes than the majority of Inkopolis?"

The purple Inkling just shrugs, slipping the frames back onto his face, much to Rider's disappointment.

"I look better this way."

Rider doesn't know how to respond to that other than "I'll beat you up."

A smirk now, one that he wants to get rid of, but not by punching this time. "No you won't."

Rider doesn't feel like countering that remark and resolves to pull the purple Inkling backwards on the couch, making good on his mental goal on getting rid of that smirk by kissing it as much as he can.

Maybe he can make Aviator forget about his insecurities too.

\--

He goes back to Octo Canyon without telling anyone, and he supposes that's his own mistake. He manages to capture five Zapfish before returning to Tentakeel Outpost and finds a note on the ground. The handwriting is so familiar, he feels panic rise inside him.

_You disappeared. Looking for you_.

No. No, no, no. This can't be happening. He whirls in a circle, trying to see a kettle that might've been unlocked. There's none here.

A ting in his headphones alerts him. It's Agent Two.

_"The Octoling mission at Moray Towers has been opened. You aren't supposed to clear that one yet."_

Shit.

He turns off his headset without a second thought and superjumps to the kettle. It's already been uncovered, and he doesn't know why. He hasn't even gone through this area yet.

He jumps through the kettle.

\--

_"Looking for someone special?" A hand grabs his tentacles, yanking them back as the barrel of a gun is pressed under his chin. It's all he can do to swallow and force a smile._

_"Yeah. You see Agent 3.5 around?"_

_The gun digs into his skin and he falls silent as his captor laughs, a cackling sound that's unmistakably female and _not_ an Inkling noise. He has no way out; his body is bent at an awkward angle and this person's grip is too strong for him to get free._

_"Agent 3.5, eh?" She snickers loudly. "He's not supposed to come here yet. Squids like to fight in order. That can't be the only reason why."_

_"It is--"_

_"Don't speak unless you're spoken to." Pain suddenly spreads from his crotch and he gasps in pain, legs giving out beneath him. The other thankfully lets go of him. He sees high-heeled boots past his blurry vision and has to hold back a quip for fighting in heels. The gun moves to press into his back. "What is the real reason why you came?"_

_"I-- need to find--"_

_"Agent 3.5, you've said that already. You have a connection to him or something?"_

_He's smart enough to stay silent. She growls in frustration and clicks off the safety of her gun. He can lift his head slightly now, the pain wearing away at his vision, but he sees the tentacles, the exposed suckers._

_An Octoling._

_He'll probably be shot dead right here and now, but he needs to find Rider._

_"Answer me."_

_He refuses to speak and it earns him a blast of ink in his chest, the ink burning upon impact and he bites hard on his tongue, tasting blood. "Answer me, now!"_

_"Fuck you," is all he manages. The ink is dripping through his jacket, it hurts too much to think, and she slaps him across the face._

_He barely feels his sunglasses fly off, nor the hand that plunges into his jacket pocket, extracting his phone. She crushes the sunglasses beneath her feet and he watches blankly as they're reduced to nothing but shards of metal and glass. She takes longer with his phone, probably testing his password or something, before she huffs and tosses it to the ground. She doesn't step on them though._

_The gun is pressed to the side of his head now and he feels an unusual calm spread through his body, despite the crippling pain on his chest. He coughs, blood splattering across the concrete, and he stares bemusedly as it trickled into the dents of the platform._

_"I'll give you one last chance. Why do you want to find Agent 3.5?"_

Rider,_ he thinks, and a slight smile spreads across his face at the thought. Rider would be furious that he came in here alone, with no weapon, no connection to spawn, maybe would scold him for about two hours, refuse to speak to him for three days, and love him through all of it. _I'm sorry_. He sees her pull the trigger in slow motion and he closes his eyes. _I love you.

_The ink bursts from the barrel, scorching the side of his face, burning his mind and body into oblivion and Aviator drops face first onto the ground, dead._

\--

The place is a wasteland. It hasn't been secured by Squidbeak yet, and this is at least three missions ahead of his own progress. He looks for sunglasses and finds none, instead a pile of blue liquid trailing along the side of the ramps. He kneels and touches it.

Blood.

His heartrate picks up and he moves further into the stage, roller at the ready. Cod, if anything happened to Aviator--

Movement.

He turns and strikes at the air, a wave of ink coming down to splat an Octoling, who is poised to kill him. She was so close to him, he realizes the danger of this situation. He tries to recall if Aviator was accompanied by a weapon, but he knows that he never even saw any sunglasses here at all. Aviator came in here unarmed.

It just keeps getting worse and worse.

An Octoling appears above him, smile wide and sharp. "Looking for something, sweetie?"

Rider snarls. He doesn't have time for this. "Why would you need to know?"

The Octoling ignores him and turns over her shoulder, talking to someone behind her. "Oh, you hear that? He came for you. How sweet."

There's no reply.

"Funny," she adds, turning back to him. "We had another Inkling come in here earlier, searching for Agent 3.5. That's you, right?"

He says nothing and just stares at her desperately. If Aviator is there, injured, possibly on the brink of death, he could never forgive himself. He hasn't had a failure on his hands before and he isn't about to start, not with his own boyfriend.

"So what if it's me?" She shrugs at him, cackling in laughter.

"So what if it's you? I thought you might need these first."

There's a flash and his hands immediately reach out to catch the two items she tosses to him. One is Aviator's phone. The other is a jumbled mess of gold-painted metal and shards of colored glass. He drops the second with a hiss of pain as a glass splinter digs into his hand. Another cackle of laughter and he glares at the Octoling above him.

The look only lasts for two seconds before she kicks a body off the platform she's standing on, the figure hitting the gratings below with sickening smacks before it lands on the ground in front of Rider, the Agent staring at the limp form in horror, blood seeping from the familiar green and white jacket, the purple tentacles, staining it a sickly blue. There's no way they survived the fall, as injured as they already appeared to be.

He's rushing forward before he even can process it. He cups the back of Aviator's head, turning it towards him, willing those beautiful eyes to open, but he knows they won't heed his wishes. There's a large gash across the other's chest, leaking blue, half of the face melting from magenta ink.

Rider looks back at the clump of mindless metal and glass at his feet, mind in blank shock.

It takes him a minute before he realizes that they're sunglasses.

It's like a spark has ignited in his brain, speeding through from the very first time he saw them. With a smirk, a smile, a frown, covered in enemy ink, reflecting his own face so many times. He was lucky enough to see the eyes underneath. And now he never will again.

The sunglasses are here, crushed in a shapeless mass, bloodstains visible on the frames, even from the distance it is to the ground. He doesn't know whether to scream or cry. He chooses both at once.

His rage explodes.

\--

He repairs Aviator's broken sunglasses himself, staying up countless nights to hammer away at the metal, to replace the shattered lenses. The sunglasses are now resting next to his bed, on the opposite nightstand, like it's just waiting for its owner to reclaim them, to put them on in the morning.

At least he's smarter than a pair of simple shades. He knows that no one comes back from the dead. No one.

He used to collect items from his missions, little mementos to remind him of his failures and the things he could've done better. The sunglasses are different, though. It's to remind him of his success in what short, but sweet of a relationship they had, because it's what Aviator would've wanted him to do. He sees them every morning and evening, and each time he refuses to cry, refuses to acknowledge it.

But after the funeral, he allows himself to curl onto his side, on the wrong side of the bed, the part where the sheets are freezing to the touch, and let it out. He stares at the sunglasses, vision blurred, and if he loses concentration enough, he can just see that familiar smirk right beneath it, eyes glimmering beneath the glass, fingers brushing over his scar.

"Hi Avi," he murmurs, and the smile widens before vanishing altogether, leaving the sunglasses, empty and broken on the nightstand.

**Author's Note:**

> dont even ask how this crackship exists bc i dont know either


End file.
